


Young Taborlin and the Cat With No Particular Name

by cruellae (tinkabelladk)



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Cat with no particular name, threes, tinker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 12:51:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16954368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkabelladk/pseuds/cruellae
Summary: This is a kids' book I wrote for my nephew who will be born in April. It's just for fun and may not be 100% consistent with all the lore.





	Young Taborlin and the Cat With No Particular Name

I’m sure you’ve heard tales of Taborlin the Great. Everyone has. Everyone knows how he called down lightning to smite a great dragon, how he walked hidden roads deadly to all but the most powerful of men. He was skilled with a sword, and even more so with a word, and though many in their folly tried to stand against him, none did succeed.

But before he became a legend, he was just a boy, like any other.

His name was Taborlin. But like all things, he also had another secret name, a true name, that when whispered on any person’s lips would give that person power over him. Because to know a true name was to know the very heart of a thing. But Taborlin was clever, and guarded his name carefully, and spoke of it to no one.

 

He was traveling along the road to Tinuë, and he had been walking for a long time. His travel sack was light, and while that meant it was easier to carry, it worried him. He only had enough food left for one small meal, and only a single swallow of water left in the waterskin.

He was accompanied by a peculiar cat who had no particular name. The cat’s eyes were as black as its fur, and both eyes and fur shimmered in the waning sunlight.

On this sunset road they met a weary tinker sitting on a worn stump. His packs were set carelessly beside him, and they too had seen better days.

The tinker looked up at young Taborlin without much hope. “Care to make a trade, young sir?”

Taborlin shook his head. He had no money and nothing to trade, not even a cloak to keep the rain off. “As you can see, I have nothing,” he said.

“A swallow of water from your waterskin?” the tinker said, hopefully. “A bite to eat? I’m not fussy, especially because I haven’t eaten in three days.”

Now, Taborlin only had one swallow of water left, and the heel of a small loaf of bread, and a piece of cheese too small for a mouse. And he was hungry as well, and it was a long road to Tinuë. But he was also a kind boy, and he didn’t want to leave this sad old man alone and hungry on the road.

“I don’t have much,” he said, “but you’re welcome to what I have.”

The tinker gobbled up the food without taking a breath between bites, drank the last of the water, then heaved a happy sigh as though it had been a feast. “I thank you,” he said. “And a tinker pays his debts thrice.”

With this he heaved himself off the stump and began to rummage in his packs. He muttered to himself as he did so, clucking and frowning, until finally he drew out three objects, and laid them on the stump one by one for Taborlin to see.

Now, Taborlin was a little dismayed at the items he was being offered. He had hoped for something magical and exciting, but set before him were three perfectly ordinary, if somewhat odd, household items. The first was a candle, a tall cylinder of wax melted on one end, though Taborlin wasn’t sure how it had gotten that way, seeing as it had no wick running through it to catch a flame. The second item was an ball of string that was unremarkable to look at, and could not hold a knot. Last, there was what looked like a ornate brass key, but it was really just a rod, with no teeth to catch the tumblers of a lock. Other than the string, the assortment seemed completely useless. And yet the tinker waved his hands above them with a flourish, grinning proudly.

The cat with no particular name approached the stump, sniffed the items, then returned to his place on the road with a disdainful expression. Taborlin wanted to do the same, but he had been taught courtesy from a very young age. It wouldn’t do to be rude to a tinker, so he thanked the man graciously, gathered up the items, and continued on the road to Tinuë.

Before long, it started to get dark. The trees loomed ominously over the road, and the shadows crept past like they were alive. The moon was absent in the sky, and Taborlin wished for a light, but although he had flint and tinder, the candle with no wick would not catch a flame, so he pressed on until it was too dark to see the road beneath his feet. Only then did he make a small, fearful camp by the side of the path where he could lie on the soft forest soil and wait for dawn.

It took him a long while to get to sleep, and when he woke, it was to hushed voices, melodic and inhuman. They spoke a language he did not understand, and when he sat up they grabbed his arms and bade him to be still.

“You’ve come too close,” one of them said, more shadow than man, with a smile like a knife in the dark. “Too close to the door, too close to the secret. You should have known better, manling.”

“Let me go,” Taborlin said, and his voice trembled with fear, for he knew these were people of the fae, as dangerous as knives and as elusive as moonlight.

“Shush,” said another one, a woman with a song-sweet lilt to her voice. “Sleep, little one.”

And before Taborlin could form another word, his eyes slid shut and the world was pulled away from him.

When he woke, he was in a strange, cold place. A purple flame danced mockingly in a brazier nearby—it was the only light in the room. The walls were stone, smoothly hewn with the weight of centuries in their making. Taborlin sat up with effort, his hands bound behind his back, but when he tugged at his bonds, he broke free easily. The fae who tied him had used the string the tinker gave him—the string that could not hold a knot.

Taborlin’s travelsack was long gone, and with it the long knife he carried with him on dangerous roads. All he had in his pocket was the candle with no wick and the key with no teeth.

Now, he could have sat in the strange stone room and cursed his luck, and cried about all the unfairness of the past day. But Taborlin had in him a resolve that was as relentless and unyielding as any of the stone walls that surrounded him, and he would not give in to self-pity or doubt. He got to his feet and peered out the doorway into a hall so dark he couldn’t see his hand when he waved it in front of his face.

Out of that darkness stepped the cat with no particular name. The cat sat by the brazier filling the room with purple dancing light, and looked at Taborlin expectantly. But Taborlin had no torch to catch the flame and carry it, and nothing he could use to make one. He stared into the flickering violet flames, trying to find the solution. Then it came to him all in a flash.

This was a magic light, and so the rules were not the same at all. He took from his pocket the candle with no wick, and lifted it to the brazier. The candle caught the flame and held it true, easy as breathing.

With the candle and the cat at his feet, Taborlin stepped into the hallway. The cat led and he followed, through the twists and turns of the labyrinth, until he came to a door of stone. The door was as wide as Taborlin was tall, and when he pushed on it, it didn’t budge even the slightest bit. In the flickering light of the candle Taborlin could see a keyhole, but when he peered into it, he saw there were no tumblers in the lock.

Taborlin took out the key with no teeth and slipped it into the lock. It turned with a click, simple as sunrise, and the door slowly, ponderously swung open.

Inside, there were no windows and yet the clear blue light of day filled the room. There was a single table, and on it a single book. And in the book were written seven words.

_Wake, sleeping mind, and speak my name._

Taborlin spoke the words, and they became a command. His sleeping mind woke like a lion at the break of day, and around him he could see the names of all things, the stone, the soil, the sky. The names filled him like music, thrumming like a struck lute string, until his very being vibrated with the power he had just been given.

And then he spoke.

“Break,” he said, and the stone wall before him crumbled, and the true sunlight fell in.

“Breathe,” he said, and the still wind rose from its slumber and danced in the air around him.

“Burn,” he said, and dropped the book to the floor as fire rose to consume it so that no one else would ever stumble upon the hidden magic.

And in that moment, he became Taborlin the Great, who knew the names of all things, and so all things bowed before him. And he went on to have all the adventures you have heard about in books and stories and songs. He went on to find his cloak of no particular color, to rescue princes and princesses, and to earn the gratitude of kings.

And the cat with no particular name? Well, they say that cat belonged only to the moon, and while it traveled with Taborlin for a time, it always returned to its mistress as she waxed in the sky, and then slipped into the mortal realm again when she waned away. And although Taborlin knew the names of all things, the cat had no name, and so Taborlin could not command its loyalty, only its friendship.

A cat’s friendship is not given lightly, as you know, but Taborlin was such a man as could earn it. And perhaps that, more than anything else, is what makes him Taborlin the Great.


End file.
